Divergent Paths
by Ariel D
Summary: Can wounds really be healed? Can love be gained or offered in a world of hate? A look at different phases of Gaara's life, before, during, and after the Konoha Invasion. A Gaara and Kankuro-centric brother fic.
1. Age 10

**Divergent Paths:**  
>To Cease to Exist<p>

広がった道: 存在し終えるため

By Ariel-D

_Description: Can wounds really be healed? Can love be gained or offered in a world of hate? A look at different phases of Gaara's life, before, during, and after the Konoha Invasion. A Gaara and Kankuro-centric fic. Angst/family/brotherly bonding (bromance)._

_Disclaimer: Gaara, Kankuro, Temari, and the Naruto-verse are copyrighted by Masashi Kishimoto and Weekly Shonen Jump. I am making no profit; this is just for fun._

_Warnings: Graphic violence, coarse language, mentions of child abuse. Rated M._

_A/N: This story is an expanded and amplified version of "To Cease to Exist," which was written for my 15,000 page view kiriban on DA, Jan. 2009. I always wished I'd been able to fill it out more, so I decided to take this opportunity to do so._

_Part of chapter 1 (and the new sub-arc) is inspired by Storymaster Caith's fic "Poison." It's a fascinating fic; please give it a read._

_Translations, jic: Kaa-san means "mother," nii-san means "older brother," and ototo means "younger brother."_

* * *

><p>"Two roads diverged . . . [One] bent in the undergrowth"<br>— "The Road Not Taken," Robert Frost

**Chapter One — Bent Road, Age 10**

A monster lived in the Kazekage's house. A monster that killed so it could remain alive. A monster that defined its existence through death, feared being voided, and hated being unwanted and unneeded.

In the darkness, Gaara sat on the rooftop, glaring at the nearly-full moon. These were the three worst nights of the month for him: the full moon and the nights before and after it. Shukaku always clawed inside his head, scratching and whining like a dog, hissing and growling like a cat. His ears would ring from the pressure of it; his head would ache until his eyes felt as though they'd bulge out and explode from his skull. Occasionally, even still, he found himself wishing someone cared that he suffered. That someone would hold him and comfort him during these long, painful, sleepless hours.

No one ever came.

If ten years of life had taught him anything, they had taught him he was utterly alone and could trust no one. They had taught him that people lied with a smile, hated without thought, and killed without remorse — and so Gaara had become a killer of killers. However, tonight no assassins should come. Even Yondaime Kazekage knew better than to tempt Gaara's control on nights like these.

Gaara pitched forward, doubling over and clutching his head in his hands. The screaming intensified: _"Bring me blood! More blood. I thought you were a good boy. Can't we kill? Can't we? If we don't, you'll cease to exist. I don't want that."_

Groaning in pain, Gaara tried to fight back the murderous impulses. If he gave in, he would lose another piece of his personality. It presented paradoxes that Gaara couldn't resolve:

_Mother is in the sand. The sand is Shukaku._

Mother said I must kill others in order to exist. If I give in completely to the impulse, Shukaku will eat me, and I'll be erased.

I need to kill because I'm a monster. I don't want to be a monster.

I must survive. I wish I were dead.

The tension pressed on his lungs like an inflated balloon, as though he were being suffocated from the inside — agony, anguish, despair. Sometimes he wished he could cut himself. He'd tried once. Tried and failed and then been lied to about love. Sometimes, though, he wished he could slit his wrists open. He wished the sand wouldn't protect him, that he could bleed all the blood from his veins, watching it flow crimson and hot down his arms, down his face, down his legs. He wondered what the pain would feel like, but it hardly mattered. He hurt on the inside, all the time, everywhere, no matter who he was with or what he was doing.

He wanted it to stop.

Just.

Stop.

No one would care if he died, anyway. No one. They really all wanted him dead. Assassin after assassin came, and he wondered, just wondered, what it would be like if he didn't fight back. The sand automatically protected him, but he wasn't arrogant enough to think he was all-powerful or infallible. His own father could kill him if he wanted to. He was the Kazekage; he had enough power to. Gaara knew his father was a coward, though. He hid behind screens and smoke, giving orders from the safety of his rooms, surrounded by his personal guards. He would never attack outright, never take his son's life with his own hands. He wouldn't risk the political backlash of personally committing a child murder, and he wouldn't risk releasing Shukaku upon himself directly. Instead he ordered others to do it, like Uncle Yashamaru.

So what would it matter if Gaara killed himself? He knew he couldn't stab himself; no physical attack would work. But there was poison. He could stir up a mixture like a cocktail, sip it like a fine wine — all the things he wouldn't experience because he'd be dead at age ten. In fact, he even knew where he could get the poison: his brother's room. Kankuro had been studying poisons at least since age eight, when Gaara had been officially brought "home" to the Kazekage's Complex after Yashamaru's death. So he knew about Kankuro's poisons, knew about the way he applied them to his puppet's weapons, knew about all those reference books Kankuro read. Gaara had even twice caught him dosing himself with them, clearly trying to build immunity so he could never be killed by his own weapons. Yes, the older boy sported an impressive array of poisons.

And so the thought teased Gaara's mind that he could steal into Kankuro's room, perhaps while he was off on a training mission. He could pick a vial, any vial, and gulp down the contents. Then he could bury himself in the sand and disappear, taking Shukaku with him. Boy and beast alike gone forever. And then perhaps, just perhaps, he could be free of the pain, that pain which burned in his chest, scorching his heart, pounding in his skull, and liquefying his brain one cell at a time as Shukaku battered him and abused him from the inside.

"Make it stop," he hissed, doubling over and smashing his face into his knees. "Make it stop!" He panted, gasping as the pain intensified. "I don't wanna be alone. Why is it always me? I'm tired of being alone."

_"Just kill them all,"_ the Other whispered. _"Release me. Let me avenge you. I'll rip their arms off and dash their brains out on the floor. I'll paint the walls with their blood. Their screams will be a beautiful chorus, a song of their deaths. They'll gurgle in their throats, pink foam frothing on their lips, and we can laugh. We can make them pay. We can make them hurt."_

Half of Gaara's soul reached out, trying to embrace that darkness. He didn't understand what sex was, but still his soul bloomed outward, trying to make love to that velvety blackness, so hot and yet so cold. He wanted to lose himself in it, release himself into that unconsciousness, let Shukaku possess him, use his body, make use of him.

The other half of Gaara's soul rebelled. No, he didn't want to cause that death. He wanted to be inside that death. He wanted kill the hurt and stop this endless parade of abusive consciousness. Instead of feeding it with his own violence, murdering all those who tried to assassinate him, he wanted to receive that death, take it into his body, possess it, be possessed by it. Be no more.

Dead.

_"Live for me, Self-Loving Demon. Kill for me, avenge me, and fight for your existence."_

"Kaa-san," Gaara gasped, clutching his head in his hands and squeezing brutally. His mother's voice always came to him in these moments, making impossible demands.

_"Love yourself; live only for yourself."_

"But I want to die," he argued, fighting against 'her' voice. He didn't love himself. Not truly. He didn't love anyone or anything. He'd tried. Tried to comprehend injuries, tried to comprehend pain. Tried to understand what love was and believe he had it.

But he didn't. Love was a kanji burned into his forehead.

Distantly, a dog howled, sounding sad and alone. Gaara understood that agony. He was always alone, even in a crowd. A flicker of movement registered in the corner of his vision. A flick of a wrist; a flash of steel in the moonlight. An assassin who didn't understand to stay away during the moon's fullest phase. Fool. Gaara didn't try to defend himself, but the sand encircled him, protecting him. Angry that he couldn't just let the bastard kill him or at least fling himself from the roof and make himself splat on the hard-packed sand below, Gaara shrieked in rage and whirled toward the assassin, wrapping him in sand and squeezing slowly, so slowly. Bones creaked, snapping one by one; the man's screams were muffled by the sand.

_Subaku kyu, _Gaara mentally recited, squeezing his hand and pulverizing what remained of the man. A spray of blood flew outward, raining upon him, and he lifted his face, letting the hot drops splash upon his cheeks and forehead. Suddenly, he wanted to bathe himself in the blood, and he licked his lips, tasting the salty tang and grinning, a laugh pushing up his throat from his sternum.

Yes, a monster lived inside the Kazekage's house. Gaara knew that monster was him.

* * *

><p>A monster lived in Kankuro's house. Not the kind that hid under your bed or in your closet. Not the kind that visited in dreams or showed up in movies. A real monster. The kind that could kill you.<p>

Kankuro walked behind Gaara, staring at his younger brother's red hair. It wasn't often that all three of the Kazekage's children went anywhere together, but Chiyo-basama and Ebizo-jiisama had both retired, prompting a huge party. The Kazekage had required his children to attend, and Gaara's inclusion seemed to be related to his slow stabilization. The brat was cold and hateful, but he at least no longer lost control of his sand all the time. After four years in the academy, Gaara had learned to manage and restrain his ninjutsu, sometimes going as long as six months between Shukaku's appearances. When unbothered and unprovoked, he even acted like a model of politeness and decorum.

_And so — lucky me — I got to spend the entire night "babysitting" him at the party,_ Kankuro thought, frowning. Or, rather, both Temari and he had been charged with watching over Gaara and making sure he stayed calm. Of course, once Gaara showed signs of irritation, Kankuro had been ordered to escort him home. Gaara didn't like crowds. Gaara didn't like parties. Gaara didn't like _people._

"Stop staring," the boy growled without turning around.

Kankuro glanced away, not even bothering to ask how his brother knew. The sun had set, casting the village into shadows that blackened the streets and billowed in the alleys. Kankuro felt relieved that the full moon had passed, otherwise he would've automatically feared for his life. He often wondered why he couldn't have had a normal brother, but he had learned it was his father's fault.

Gaara glanced over his shoulder, frowning at his older brother as though he could somehow read his thoughts. "The party was stupid. Those old freaks are just washing their hands of the village. It's not worth celebrating." He faced forward again.

"You're right, _jan._" Kankuro stared at his brother's back, his gaze catching on the crimson obi that secured Gaara's black kimono. He'd been aware for years that Gaara was more insightful than a typical child. He wasn't sure why, but his brother was far more perceptive and articulate than a ten-year-old. He just seemed to _see_ things others couldn't, even if his understanding seemed twisted at times.

Gaara didn't speak again until they reached home. He slid open the door and slipped out of his wooden geta, pausing before he stepped up onto the hardwood floor. "You didn't wear your face paint."

"Nope." Kankuro kicked off his own geta, wondering what his brother was getting at.

"Put it back on." Gaara glanced over his shoulder again, his eyes narrowed. "You look exactly like Father, so looking at you like this makes me sick."

The entire world stood still. For a moment, Kankuro couldn't breathe, move, or even think. From down the hall, he could hear the indistinct voice of a man talking over the radio — probably from the cook listening to the news while he washed the supper dishes. Kankuro felt so surreal that it seemed more like overhearing a conversation from another world. Then the pain crashed into his chest like a sand storm, and he felt a burning sensation expand from his heart, down the undersides of his arms, and out into his fingers. "Whatever, _jan._" The performer inside took over, leveling out his voice and keeping his face expressionless. He stepped up into the mansion and headed upstairs.

No reply followed him. Gaara had fallen into silence again.

Although he meant to retreat to his bedroom, Kankuro ended up in the bathroom instead, staring into the mirror. In truth he wanted to cry. He hated his father deeply; he hated that he looked like the bastard. Puppeteers who'd been officially inducted into the Puppet Corps could choose to wear face paint. After passing the initial induction exam at age nine, Kankuro had gained two advantages: a personal tutor and the paint. The Corps had suggested purple for him because it symbolized nobility and he was the Kazekage's son. He'd accepted that rite of passage gratefully.

Kankuro turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face, enabling himself to pretend like there hadn't been tears in his eyes. With slow movements, he dried his face and opened the vanity drawer, pulling out a tin of paint. He dipped his fingertip inside. His fingers felt numb; his heart felt like it would explode all over his lungs. To a certain extent, Gaara couldn't have handed him a worse insult.

Even though it was night and Gaara would never know the difference, Kankuro touched his finger to his face, drawing the familiar lines.

* * *

><p>Despite Gaara's insult, the following morning found Kankuro sticking to his usual routine. He awakened thinking his usual thoughts and preparing for his usual plots: <em>I wonder what kinds of poisons they'll use on Gaara today.<em>

Kankuro stretched slowly, glancing toward his footboard to make sure he wouldn't accidentally kick his cat, Akako. Akako, though, had already sensed that he was awake, and she stood, her body trembling as she stretched mightily, arching her back high and yawning. Kankuro watched with a certain jealousy, wishing humans could stretch that well. He pulled his arm out from under his covers and held out his hand. Akako meowed, although it sounded more like a squeak, and trotted across the mattress, her tail held high, the tip curled over like a candy cane.

"What do you think?" he whispered to his longtime friend. "Prussian blue, cyanide, arsenic, or foxglove? Or maybe even lye?" He'd lost count of the number of poisons they'd tried to murder Gaara with.

Akako butted his hand with her head and then rubbed against him, demanding attention. He petted her soft fur absently, her purrs nearly lulling him back to sleep. Still, he'd already overslept badly as it was. He should get dressed and head downstairs. Akako, though, plopped down right beside his hip, pushing her head under his hand and tempting him to stay put.

"Demanding, aren't we?" Kankuro smiled at her. She was a brindle, cinnamon in color, and had the softest fur of any cat he'd ever seen. He couldn't _not_pet her. She would follow him room to room in the mansion, climb into his lap, or lie beside him on the couch, and no matter what he was doing he ended up automatically petting her. Then again, he loved cats. He was considering designing his puppeteer's costume to include cat ears. Puppeteers were expected to be creative with their designs, after all, and when he graduated from the academy, he'd be expected to have finished his outfit.

Finally, Kankuro forced himself out of bed. It was nearly noon. On Sundays, he always overslept — the only day he could — and he had to take advantage of sleeping late while he still could. In two weeks, he'd both turn twelve and become a genin, and then he'd begin officially taking missions, including on Sundays.

Akako followed him around as he dressed, rubbing against his legs, then followed him downstairs. She dashed ahead of him on the staircase, trying to take the corner into the kitchen at a dead run. Of course, she slid on the hardwood floor, plopping down on her butt and flying down the hallway several feet. Kankuro had to laugh, especially when she stood up and flicked her tail as though to say, _I meant to do that._

"Cats are so funny," Kankuro told her fondly. _Yeah,_ he thought, watching her trot through the kitchen doorway, _I definitely have to give my hood cat ears._He reached up, pushing aside the curtain and stepping into the room. Although he'd smelled grilled chicken from the stairwell, he somehow didn't expect to find what he did: Gaara, sitting by himself at the table, a grilled chicken salad in front of him.

Stopping in his tracks, Kankuro stared at the food. _Shit, he's already eating lunch?_ Gaara never ate breakfast, so even if Kankuro overslept, it wasn't an issue. Lunch and supper, though . . . He always needed to check both meals for poison.

Gaara glanced at the cat, then up at him, frowning. "Noon? You're so lazy."

As though he didn't hear him, Kankuro stared down at Gaara, fighting off a sense of panic. "You fixed yourself lunch?" He had to ask, even if he already knew the answer. Gaara couldn't cook much, and he certainly wouldn't fix himself a salad.

Gaara stared back at him, unblinking. "No."

Without pause, Kankuro nabbed a finger-full of food and popped it in his mouth. He adopted his punk persona as he did, smirking faintly as though daring Gaara to say anything. He hesitated, tasting the salad, really concentrating, and making it look like he thought it simply tasted bad. And it did, but only to him. It was poisoned with foxglove, which was almost undetectable in a salad. Nearly. Just a trace bitter, metallic sheen buried under the flavor, almost like sour spinach greens. The kind of thing anyone else would ignore.

Kankuro felt all the blood drain from his face. Even he would have to take an anecdote if he ate the entire meal. Fortunately, it looked like Gaara had only taken a few bites. He'd probably be okay if he didn't eat any more. At worst, he would vomit or have diarrhea and maybe get a bad headache. It could be passed off as ordinary food poisoning.

If Kankuro could stop him. And he had to stop him without telling him the truth. Truth was not an option. At best, Gaara would fly into a rage, and Shukaku would appear. At worst, he would confront their father, who would figure out that Kankuro had been protecting his ototo, and the punishment for sabotaging an A-rank mission daily for two years was something Kankuro didn't even want to contemplate. It wasn't like being the Kazekage's son would save him from the punishment, after all.

For a suspended second their gazes met, Gaara's a glare and Kankuro's a badly-covered fear. He hated what his brother had become. Hated and feared it. But he blamed his father for it, not Gaara, and above all else, he wanted to be a nii-san. He wanted someone to protect and care for, fight beside and train with — a kindred spirit. More than that, he considered it blatantly wrong for a father to attempt to kill his own children. He could remember a time when his father was almost kind, or at the least hadn't been cruel. Life had been normal then. Sane. It had made sense. Then Kankuro had learned about the standing assassination orders; he'd learned about his mother's murder. And his father's mask had fallen off.

After that, Kankuro had learned a reason to wear a mask of his own. Maybe that mask could help him now.

"Get your own food," Gaara finally hissed, apparently irritated that Kankuro had not cowered and run away under his glare. "Don't steal mine. No wonder you're fat."

Kankuro froze where he stood, the words cutting deeper than Gaara could have guessed. He'd hit puberty early, the youngest boy in his class to do so, if looks were a measure. He was taller and broader-shouldered than all the others. Bigger. At first it'd been a point of pride; he'd waited impatiently for his beard to begin to appear, although it hadn't yet. Then, suddenly, it had been turned on him by the class bullies, and although he could beat them up, he couldn't erase the pain of their hateful words.

For a brief, brief moment, Kankuro considered letting his insane brother eat the poisoned food. It was a black thought, making him feel sick and defiled, and he dismissed it immediately. But he couldn't quite feel guilty for it, either. From that hesitation, however, came a plan: Kankuro had technically been provoked. He could take action and have it make sense. "I'm not fat, jackass." He hit Gaara's plate, swinging wide to be sure to knock over his glass as well. Likely it'd all been poisoned.

The plate hit the hardwood floor with a crash, shattering and sending the food flying. The glass thumped over, splashing juice on the tabletop. In the silence that followed, the sounds seemed by contrast to be deafening.

Kankuro glowered at Gaara, faking anger. In truth, he felt terror. Terror that his brother had nearly been poisoned and terror over his own potential fate.

Gaara stood slowly, straightening with such a sense of purpose that Kankuro thought he could hear his joints creak. He faced his older brother with a look of intense loathing, and Kankuro couldn't breathe. His lungs felt heavy and constricted, iced over. Cold sweat trickled down his back, tickling his spine, and beaded on his temples. Still, he held his ground, determined to face death bravely. It was strange how he found courage in these moments. If he enraged Gaara by accident, he tripped over himself apologizing. If he enraged him on purpose — especially in a case when it involved protecting him — he didn't say a word.

"Worthless piece of shit," Gaara growled, his eyes suddenly bloodshot.

_I'm gonna die._ Strangely, the flat factualism of the realization bled away some of Kankuro's fear. Weird, but it didn't seem to be as great of a tragedy as he used to think. Had he somehow grown apathetic toward his own life? He found he only hoped that Gaara maintained enough compassion or composure to crush him instantly. _No,_ he chastised himself. _I have to stay alive for Temari._

And so went the supposedly final thoughts of an 11-year-old boy.

Gaara turned abruptly, his face blank and stoic again. "It's not worth it. _You're_ worthless." Cold words, emotionless. He exited the kitchen silently, leaving the mess for Kankuro to clean.

_It worked,_ Kankuro thought, his shoulders slumping in relief. He tried not to think about Gaara's parting insult. _Gonna have to find a way to kill our cook without raising Father's suspicions, though._ He sighed to himself, wondering how he'd become so tainted that he could matter-of-factly ponder killing a civilian. Still, it was obvious to him that the cook was behind the repeated poisonings.

Kankuro cleaned up the mess and cooked his own breakfast. Unsurprisingly, Gaara returned in a quarter-hour and stole his food. He sat quiet and motionless at the table while Gaara grabbed the plate and left. No problem. There was more on the stove. Besides, mission accomplished.

He was almost to the point of congratulating himself when he stepped out into the garden and found the corpse.

At first, he thought it was a crumpled, bloody shirt. Confused, he headed toward it. Who would leave such a thing outside? As he neared it, though, he collapsed to the ground, his body abruptly limp and heavy. He didn't even feel the hot sand burning his legs and hands.

It wasn't a shirt.

It was his cat.

"_No!_" His scream filled the entire courtyard and bounced off the sides of the mansion. He reached toward the mangled body; she was misshapen with sand matted in her blood. When his shaking fingers touched her soft fur, he found she was still warm to the touch. He wanted to pick her up and cradle her to his chest, but he couldn't bring himself to move the body.

Gaara had killed her.

She had died in his place, unknowingly sacrificing her life for his.

"_Why?_" Normally, Kankuro never allowed himself to cry. At the death of his friend of nine years — the loving companion who'd been by his side every day since he was a toddler — he was instantly overcome. He burst into tears, his wail echoing in the garden.

Distantly, he registered the sound of a door sliding open. The thump of running footsteps on wooden floors reached his ears, followed by a pattering across raked sand. "Kankuro?" Temari's worried voice, then a horrified gasp. Thin, warm arms encompassed him, and he accepted the embrace without resistance.

"Why?" he repeated, sobbing into Temari's shoulder. He stared beyond his sister to his little friend's limp body, reaching toward her, gesturing at her. "_Why?_" His voice escalated sharply. "She was innocent. She didn't do anything wrong. She couldn't hurt him even if she tried! She's just a cat." He knew he was hysterical, but he couldn't stop crying. "She was — she never — she wasn't tainted like me." He wasn't making sense. He didn't care. "But she didn't know, so she loved me anyway, and he _crushed her to death!_"

"I'm sorry." Temari wasn't a crier, either, but he could hear the tears in her voice. She hugged him more tightly. How long had it been since they'd hugged each other? "I'm so sorry, ototo." She rocked him back and forth gently.

Kankuro clung to her, unable to stop sobbing. Was this what love brought him? He tried to care, tried to do the right thing, tried to protect his family, and it won him punishment and death?

"What the hell is all this blubbering about?"

The cold, angry voice evaporated Kankuro's tears like nothing else could. He stiffened in his sister's arms and felt her tense as well. Their father had arrived unheard and unnoticed, like the topnotch shinobi he was.

"Gaara killed Kankuro's cat," Temari said quietly and calmly.

Kankuro already knew her attempts to save him would be in vain. As of late, his father was increasingly disappointed in him. He wasn't stoic enough. Not soulless enough.

"All that wailing over a cat?" Hands grabbed him and yanked him from his sister's arms. "You're crying like a little girl over a _cat?_"

Kankuro knew from experience not to fight back, not to even block. The more he resisted, the worse the beating was. His gaze fell on the stone pathway, which suddenly angled sharply in his field of vision. Pain exploded through his skull, but internally, he was already numb. He could hear his sister begging and pleading, trying to reason with their father while he yelled. His ears rang between the hits and the words like "You'd better toughen up" and "You call yourself a man, must less a shinobi?"

Yes, there was a monster in the Kazekage's house. A real monster, the kind that could kill you.

Kankuro had known for years that the monster wasn't Gaara.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I love cats, I promise. I own cats. Sorry for the animal trauma._

_Thank you to Chi for betareading this and to all who review!_


	2. Age 12

_Reminders: "Kaa-san" means mother and "jan" is the random syllable Kankuro adds to his sentences because he speaks in a punk accent._

* * *

><p>"Yet knowing how way leads on to way,<br>I doubted if I should ever come back."  
>-"The Road Not Taken," Robert Frost<p>

**Chapter Two — Never Turning Back, Age 12**

_I don't want to cease to exist._

The thought struck Gaara along with consciousness, pulling him from the darkness. He became aware of his surroundings slowly, noting the breeze passing over his arms and tousling his hair as well as the damp heat along his entire front side, especially against his cheek. Next he realized that his legs were being squeezed, although not uncomfortably so, and that every few seconds he was being jostled faintly. Finally, he noticed the smell of pine trees and the sounds of chirping birds.

_I'm still here,_ Gaara thought, opening his eyes. Running beside him was his sister, who to his confusion was carrying Karasu on her back along with her fan. Realizing what that must mean, he lifted his head, and sure enough, Kankuro was carrying him on his back.

"Set me down," he said simply, fully expecting to be obeyed; his siblings rarely defied him. He also expected Kankuro to jerk at the sudden sound of his voice, but the older boy just glanced over his shoulder and then hopped from the next tree branch to the ground, setting down Gaara as ordered.

Finding he was still too weak to do anything else, Gaara let his legs fold so that he sat on his heels seiza-style.

Temari knelt beside him, frowning with clear worry. "You okay?"

He considered the question, trying to assess his condition. "Still drained." He hadn't used that much chakra in his life. He'd burnt up enough to knock himself unconscious a few times — many of the times he'd summoned Shukaku, in fact — but never enough that he couldn't recover in an hour or less. However, this time they'd traveled all night, and yet he didn't have his chakra back. Also, the wound Uchiha Sasuke had given him still hurt.

"Let's eat and sleep," Kankuro said, his voice not much more than a murmur. "I don't think I can take another step."

Temari shook her head. "We need to make it to that little village with the restaurants; it's technically a part of Wind. If we're being pursued, and they catch us while we're still in Fire . . ."

"_No one_ is chasing us." Kankuro wasn't a whiner, so when he didn't like a situation, he skipped straight from silent to aggressive. At most, Temari or Baki would get a single warning shot in the guise of a smartass comment.

Gaara's first impulse was to tell him to shut up, but he remembered Naruto's shining eyes, so full of dedication to his precious people, and kept quiet. _I guess it doesn't work that way, _he thought, mulling over the implications of his revelation.

"We can't take that chance." Temari's eyes had narrowed; she had no problem giving as good as she got.

Realizing his siblings were past the point of exhaustion, in part because he had to be carried, Gaara intervened. "Take a nap. I'll wake you up in an hour."

Two sets of wide eyes turned his direction; he was never so considerate.

Temari recovered first. "Gaara? Are you sure?"

However, Kankuro simply pulled a ration bar from his thigh pouch, snapped it in half, and started chewing.

"Sleep." Gaara shifted, slowly straightening his legs out in front of him and scooting backward to lean against the nearest tree.

Obviously not needing to be told twice, Kankuro swallowed his food and curled up on his side right where he sat; Gaara wondered if he'd literally fallen asleep while eating. It wasn't outside of the range of possibility. He'd caught his brother sleep walking many times before, and once he'd watched him sleep eat.

Temari sighed and dumped her fan and Karasu on the ground, but despite her reluctance, she only remained conscious for a minute once lying down. And so Gaara watched over them, aware that in a subtle way, he was performing his first protective act.

_Will this also keep me from ceasing to exist?_ he wondered. _Protecting others?_ The fear had plagued Gaara for years, ever since his father's first assassins had attacked, but never more so than it had the day before as he'd fought Uzamaki Naruto. For a moment, he'd been afraid, genuinely afraid, that he'd cease to exist, either through physical death or metaphysical annihilation. After all, with his chakra exhausted, Gaara had no way to defend himself and couldn't even move. And yet in that moment, his siblings had come to his aid. Gaara knew they could have stayed back, let Uzamaki or Uchiha finish him off, then reported he'd been killed in battle. But they hadn't.

Turning his hand palm up, Gaara moved each finger slowly, aware of the motion but somehow unable to feel it. _They came for me,_ he thought, his mind suspended in a surrealistic realm. _I summoned Shukaku, which has always made them run away, but they returned._ What had caused their show of strength? He had no answer for that, but his thoughts were tumbling over each other, jumping topics and racing after connections. Gaara frowned to himself, Naruto's words coming back to him. _Love,_ he thought for the hundredth time, unable to move past the most basic concept. _Love can make someone strong._

But what, exactly, was love?

He pondered the question for the better part of the hour, watching his sleeping siblings as he thought. For the first time, he noticed that Temari looked like their mother, especially with her face relaxed in sleep. Her ponytails were falling down, leaving her hair to escape in frizzy strands. Kankuro frowned even when unconscious, and Gaara found himself wondering why. He only smiled when sarcastic; it was always more of a boastful smirk. Over the course of the previous day, Kankuro's face paint had faded and rubbed off in places, but normally the paint made his mouth look wider than it really was, underscoring a smile or a frown alike. For the first time, Gaara not only wondered why he frowned so much but also why he wore the paint.

Strange thoughts. New thoughts.

_"Unnecessary thoughts,"_ Shukaku whispered inside him. _"Just kill. Let's find a new opponent, a strong one like yesterday's, and swim in their blood."_

_No,_ Gaara thought in reply, resisting the voice.

_"But we need that blood! I don't want you to vanish. Now Gaara, I always thought you were a good boy."_

"Kaa-san?" Gaara slapped both hands against his temples, shaking his head and growling under his breath. _No!_ He didn't need that Siren's song. _I will not be erased. That Naruto guy, he knew my pain, but he said other people saved him from his loneliness. I don't understand, but somehow, somehow . . . love made him strong._ He closed his eyes, panting with effort as he clenched a mental fist around his thoughts, condensing them, crushing them, an internal _sabaku kyu_to rid his mind of the whispering voice of The Other.

"Gaara?" Kankuro sat up and frowned at him blurrily. Despite the sleep walking, the older boy could be awakened easily with noise. He pushed to his feet and stumbled over, collapsing at Gaara's side. If anything, he seemed worse for the nap. "You all right?"

Now both of his siblings had inquired about his wellbeing. Before, he'd ignored any such questions, assuming they were faking politeness, but he understood his brother well enough to know that a tired Kankuro was a blunt Kankuro. He wouldn't ask if he didn't truly want the answer. "My wound feels hot," he evaded, not wanting to discuss Shukaku. He paused, realizing the truth of his answer. His shoulder was uncomfortably hot.

"You didn't let us treat it, _jan,_" Kankuro replied, just as bluntly as Gaara expected. He pulled his small first aid kit from his thigh pouch. "Let me see."

Although he stared at him for a moment, Gaara finally complied, pulling his shirt back and making sure his leather band and white sash didn't get in the way. He glanced at the spot, finding crusted blood, puffy swelling, red streaks, and some white stuff.

Kankuro leaned forward, inspecting the wound and frowning. "Not good, man." He peeled his glove off and first pressed his hand and then his wrist against Gaara's forehead. "Totally not good. You're running a fever, I think."

Despite intending to ask his brother what that meant, Gaara found that the words died on his lips. No one in his entire life had touched him so kindly. _What's this?_ he wondered, stunned.

"It's infected," Kankuro continued, pulling a bottle of sanitizer from his kit. He treated his own hands with it, then poured some on a gauze pad. "This might sting a bit, but I've got to get it cleaned up."

Gaara nodded silently. He couldn't control whether the sand tried to defend him from the pain, but since it wasn't an attack, he thought it would work fine. Kankuro rubbed the pad over the wound, wiping away the white stuff and the dried blood, and immediately the wound began burning. Gaara growled faintly, his shoulder jerking.

"Sorry!" Kankuro paused, growing stiff and still, and stared at him warily.

"Continue." Since he knew it was technically his own fault, Gaara steeled himself to deal with the repercussions.

With gentle strokes, Kankuro wiped down the area, then applied ointment and a bandage. Gaara watched the process, ignoring the pain in light of his shock at how tender his brother was being. _What's this?_ he wondered again, shocked. _Who is this Kankuro? _Had this side of his brother always existed? If so, why had he never seen it? Because Kankuro hated him? Perhaps, but that didn't explain why Gaara was getting to see it now.

Temari had awakened, and she joined her brothers, her movements stiff. "How is he?"

"The wound's infected," Kankuro replied, packing up his first aid kit. "He's got a fever, I think."

Frowning, Temari felt under Gaara's chin with her wrist. "Hm. A mild one, yeah." She unpacked her own kit. "Better treat your forehead, too. It's a small wound, but we can't be too careful."

Gaara stared at her as she cleaned off his forehead and applied ointment and a small bandage. She had tried to help him earlier, he remembered, but he'd knocked her away. Still, she was patiently patching him up now. He hardly knew what to think. He would expect her to help Kankuro, but not him.

"Okay, let's go." Temari stowed her kit and stood, stretching her arms over her head. "I'll carry Karasu again; you just focus on Gaara. Unless you want to switch?" She headed for her fan and the puppet.

"Nah." Kankuro pulled Gaara's arm across his shoulders then wrapped his arm around his waist. "I'm good." He stood slowly, watching Gaara's face as he moved.

Gaara gazed up at him, realizing that for some reason, his brother was worried about him. _Me?_His entire day was turning into a series of surprises. He was well aware that Kankuro worried about Temari all the time — not in the sense that he didn't think she could take care of herself; more like he was predisposed to worry about those he loved.

Gaara assumed he didn't qualify as one of those people.

However, as they took to the trees again, he couldn't deny that his siblings were looking out for him. In fact, Gaara abruptly realized that his brother's arm felt warm and strong around him. Strange how he'd never noticed it before. He'd always looked upon his siblings as lumps of flesh that had fled from him when they were young children, leaving him utterly alone. Now, though, he was suddenly aware of Kankuro's breathing — soft, deep inhalations matched to his running pace — and his wounds. Thanks to Shukaku's keen sense of smell, Gaara detected that metallic scent associated with blood. His brother also smelled vaguely of cinnamon or nutmeg — some spice Gaara couldn't quite place but remembered came from Kankuro's shaving supplies. The scent usually got absorbed into his hat.

And then just as abruptly, Kankuro was no longer a lump of flesh. He wasn't human, either, because Gaara wasn't sure what it meant to be "human." But Gaara could feel the warmth of his arm around him and understood that Kankuro and Temari had returned for him from something other than fear or orders. What that something was, though, he had no idea. But if someday he could change his fate the same way Uzamaki Naruto had . . . If he could forge a bond with another person . . . then the people he had to start with were the ones at his side: his siblings. The siblings who'd returned for him the day before.

In his mind, Gaara saw them land in front of him. Bruised and battered, most of their chakra spent, they had formed a human shield, blocking his opponents' way. A clear sign, although totally nonverbal: _We will defend him. _And what was more, Gaara realized that he wasn't truly surprised; somehow, he had known they would. He had taken it for granted in that moment, simply calling them off and indicating they should leave. Why? Why could he make such an assumption? Yet he couldn't deny it: now his siblings were always there when he passed out or could no longer fight, and here Kankuro was, carrying him again as though to illustrate that point. It was a great mystery.

"Thank you," Gaara whispered, his voice so faint only Kankuro would hear it.

Kankuro glanced at him with wide eyes, his shock evident. "For what?"

Gaara turned his stare to the limbs under their feet as Kankuro jumped from tree to tree. "For treating my wound."

"Ah, it's nothing, _jan._"

So he said, but for some odd reason, he tightened his grip on Gaara's waist. Gaara frowned, puzzled, but didn't comment.

Strong arm, warm arm.

Yes, he could do this. If that Naruto kid could do it, he could. He would figure out and build these elusive bonds; he would climb out of this loneliness. _Maybe, like Naruto, I can change my fate,_ he thought. _And then maybe, one day, I will be needed by someone._

* * *

><p><em>He actually needs me, <em>Kankuro thought, stealing a glance at his younger brother.

Gaara leaned against a tree, his eyes closed. Clearly, he was still exhausted and in pain. The siblings had stopped in a clearing, needing to eat dinner, and Temari had declared her intention to bathe in the nearby stream, unable to withstand the griminess any longer. Kankuro considered it a waste of time; he'd wait until nightfall and their next stop, which would hopefully be the border village with the restaurants and inns. Gaara, though, still seemed too bad off to care one way or the other.

Worried, Kankuro frowned, itching with the need to help his brother in some way — in any way. All his life he'd been driven to protect his siblings. As it concerned Temari, his impulses had been one of the few things that consistently pleased his father, who saw it as a sign of True Manhood, and it had led to the one and only time his father had ever shown him open affection. When he was eight, Kankuro had bodily shielded Temari during one of Gaara's rampages and been hospitalized for his efforts. To his utter shock, his father had stayed with him all night, holding his hand and telling him how proud he was. Kankuro had coveted that night with all his soul, searing every moment of it into his memory and finding that his physical pain almost lost all meaning. Even now he sometimes grieved the loss of that version of his father; he often hoped that had been who his father really was — that his father had simply lost his way and become a monster. Not that he had been a monster all along.

Setting aside his disturbing thoughts, Kankuro inched forward, determined to check on Gaara's wound. "Let me clean that again," he said, gesturing to his brother's shoulder.

Without replying, Gaara simply pulled aside his shirt, and dismissing his lingering hesitance, Kankuro knelt right beside him. He carefully peeled back the bandage and frowned at the wound. It was still red and swollen with angry streaks radiating from the edges. At least there was less pus this time. Kankuro pulled out his first aid kit, selecting gauze and ointment, and gently wiped down the area. Gaara watched him impassively, his gaze on Kankuro's hands as he worked, and the older boy proceeded carefully, trying to make the process as painless as possible.

"Does it hurt?" Kankuro asked as he applied a new bandage.

Gaara shook his head slowly.

"Good." The word was spoken without thought, but it was also spoken truthfully. Kankuro packed his supplies again, unaware at first that his little brother was watching him again, this time with faint surprise.

"Does it matter?" Gaara asked after a pause.

Kankuro glanced at him, confused. "Of course it matters. We don't want it to get infected."

"'We?'"

Blushing faintly, Kankuro wouldn't meet his gaze. "Yeah 'we', _jan_." His tone came out sharper than he intended because the old fear returned: every time he showed Gaara any care, whether directly or indirectly, something bad always happened. Even during the chuunin exams, Kankuro's irritated reference to their relationship had won him a death threat.

No threat came this time.

Keeping himself busy, Kankuro pulled out two ration bars and handed one to Gaara. "These are the last we have," he said, settling down to chew the protein- and carbohydrate-rich bar. They were supposed to be chocolate- and peanut butter-flavored, but they tasted more like cardboard and sand. Thanks to all the running, though, Kankuro was hungry enough to find them vaguely appetizing.

Two bites in, however, and he became aware of his brother's rather loud silence. Gaara had that effect. Sometimes his silences were threatening, sometimes unremarkable. Others were heavy or angry. Gaara could say a great deal without speaking at all. At most he might add a single hand gesture or tilt of his head, but Kankuro generally got the message. Steeling himself, he looked up to see what the message was today.

Gaara's stare was blank, flat — a pure absence of expression. For Kankuro, someone who relied on others' body language and facial expressions, Gaara had proven to be frustrating when they were younger. Likewise, as someone who processed the world through his feelings and values, Kankuro found that Gaara's repressed emotions, apathetic façade, and bent logic made him feel off-balance or uncertain at times. However, Kankuro really didn't know how to give up, and his extreme self-confidence was less about pride and more about faith in his abilities. He'd also become much better at reading the few signs and signals Gaara did reveal.

Therefore, he didn't cave under that impassive stare. Stubborn optimism met innate people skills, drawing Kankuro's attention to the tiny details in Gaara's body language: Crossed arms usually indicated disinterest, confidence, or rejection. A faint frown revealed a calm but negative mindset. A blank gaze suggested either boredom or deep thoughts that only rarely saw the light of day.

So when Gaara dropped his arms, closed his eyes, and then opened them again to stare at his knees, Kankuro relaxed his own posture, shifting into a cross-legged position and resting his arms on his thighs. He did it without even thinking, signaling with his body that he was ready to listen. When he realized what he'd done, though, he didn't shift. Ever since Gaara had apologized to him the day before, he'd been curious to know what had happened. It was obvious something monumental had occurred.

Gaara paused, his brow furrowing as he looked over Kankuro's posture, then spoke. "Why do you always do that?"

Kankuro wasn't sure what he meant. "Do what?"

"Control our food." Gaara pointed to the ration bars. "There's always been a cook, but you ignore or throw out half of what he makes. You always pack the rations and canteens. You sometimes make bento boxes for lunch. You even taste-test food and throw it out if it doesn't meet your standards."

For a moment, Kankuro's body felt made of metal. _He noticed. He totally noticed._ There was no way he could tell the truth. Granted, Gaara was likely too calm to fly into a spontaneous rage, but Kankuro had no intention of his brother's learning the truth — not ever. He wasn't sure which would bother him more: someone making a big deal out of what he considered familial duty, or Gaara rejecting or being apathetic about his efforts. Besides, it still meant that their father might learn that Kankuro had undermined an A-rank mission for four years. If he was going to die, he wanted it to be honorably in battle, not via execution as a traitor.

"What can I say?" Kankuro found his voice, and quickly. He shrugged one shoulder like it was nothing. "Cooking is an art, just as much as puppetry. And there's nothing I hate more than art that sucks."

Gaara was not waylaid. "Why do you care if the food sucks for me?"

_Busted._ Kankuro mentally scrambled, trying to stay ahead of his overly observant and insightful younger brother. He defaulted into his signature blunt mode. "You said you don't consider me a brother. I never said that about you, though."

As though he could see right into his soul, Gaara's gaze pinned him to the forest floor. Kankuro didn't even breathe. On any day prior to this one, he would've assumed he was courting death, given the non-relationship they had. Kankuro's claim was bold and both true and untrue; it was definitely the kind of thing that usually set Gaara off. But Kankuro could sense that today was different — somehow, someway. And sure enough, Gaara's stare slipped to the side without any of the usual proclamations, insults, or threats.

Able to breathe normally again, Kankuro chewed the tough ration bar in silence, wondering just what exactly had occurred between the Uzamaki kid and his brother. No answers were forthcoming, though; Gaara simply bit into his bar as well. Kankuro watched him from the corner of his vision as they ate.

It seemed, though, that Gaara wasn't done with the random questions. He resumed staring at his older brother, a slight frown on his lips. "Why do you wear such baggy clothes?"

Kankuro froze, his hand halfway to his canteen. It wasn't a question he'd ever expected anyone to ask, although he knew the answer perfectly well, and he certainly didn't expect it to be asked randomly. His clothes were so baggy they hid his entire body; once he added the face paint and hood, no one could see the real him. He had several reasons to desire that, but the one that popped into his mind involved long-ago comments Gaara had made about his weight. Of course, he knew he wasn't overweight. In fact, he'd have to gain over 15 pounds to even begin to be overweight, but even now, most kids his age were shorter, thinner, and smaller-boned than he was. They always had been. "It's more comfortable," he lied easily. "And it's easier to fight in loose-fitting clothing." That much was true, anyway.

Gaara nodded once, but the blank stare was back. Kankuro had the faint sensation that he was being sized up or judged in some way. No, that wasn't quite right. He felt like Gaara was doing information-gathering on him. But why? Gaara had never betrayed even the slightest interest in who he was or why he was the way he was. Feeling distinctly self-conscious, Kankuro took a swig from his canteen, suddenly hyperaware of himself all the way down to how he swallowed.

For several moments, Gaara watched him silently. Then the interrogation began again. "Why do you do wear the face paint when you're off duty? Even at home?"

Confused, Kankuro glanced away. Why was Gaara asking that? He was well aware that his younger brother hated the way he looked. "It's an honor to be awarded the right to wear the paint." It was hard to even say the sentence. Years had passed, but he still hurt when he remembered how Gaara had demanded that he put the paint back on. "It's a status symbol as well as a psychological tactic."

A pause. "I suppose that makes sense." Gaara took a drink from his canteen, but he gazed over it, still studying his brother.

Sweat collected on Kankuro's palms; he felt like a bug sprawling on a pin. However, Temari interrupted the pseudo-interrogation by whisking back into the clearing.

"Let's go." She adjusted her fan and belt, clearly refreshed by her bath.

Gathering his puppet, Kankuro stood and gazed at his brother, wondering if Gaara had recovered enough to run on his own. However, when Gaara pushed himself to his feet, it was immediately obvious that he hadn't. His legs trembled faintly, and he swayed, nearly losing his balance.

Without hesitation, Kankuro reached out and grabbed his wrist, pulling his arm over his shoulders. Then he clasped Gaara's small waist, holding him tightly. "Too bad you can't sleep," he said. "You really need to sleep for a solid 24 hours to get your chakra back." _At the least,_he thought, knowing that Gaara's inability to sleep would drag out his recovery. Shinobi who expended that much chakra could be knocked out for up to three days.

Gaara simply nodded once. Sometimes he became angry if he were carried too much, as though he resented the touch. This time, though, he was remaining utterly calm, and that acceptance, no matter how tacit, made Kankuro burn with the need to protect — the need to be needed. And for that moment, the need was met.

So it was with a dash of joy that Kankuro resumed running through the trees. It was no small task to carry both his puppet and Gaara — it was over a hundred pounds of extra weight — but the streak of happiness rejuvenated him, making him more energetic. He felt a grin tugging at his lips.

"A real smile," Gaara murmured, glancing up at him.

Shocked, Kankuro almost missed his footing, but he pulled himself back together quickly like any good performer would. Although he decided not to respond, Kankuro wondered, just briefly, if the Gaara he had always known might slowly cease to exist. He hoped all these odd questions and observations were a good sign, a forerunner of a positive change, but without knowing what had happened, he couldn't be sure.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I'm assuming that the siblings don't learn their father is dead until after they return home. Time-wise, the anime seems to imply that._

_If you read original kiriban story — "To Cease to Exist" — you recognized the general idea of scene 1 plus a few lines here and there. That was the founding notion of the new story._

_If you're curious, the Japanese subtitle on the first chapter is there to differentiate my old Naruto fics from the new ones. "Dances" is old, so it didn't get one despite the fact I reposted it recently._

_To be more specific, at 5.47 feet tall and 132.2 lbs, Kankuro would have to gain several pounds in order to be classified as even slightly overweight — that is, according to a BMI calculator. If we factor in that, as a shinobi, part of Kankuro's weight will be extra muscle — something a BMI calculator can't account for — then he might have to gain something like 15-17 lbs. . . . Yeah, I know, I know. I'm totally OCD. But I'll explain more about why at the end of the story._


	3. Age 14

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —  
>I took the one less traveled by,<br>And that has made all the difference."  
>— "The Road Not Taken," Robert Frost<p>

**Chapter Three — The Difference, Age 14**

Gaara had to wonder if he was making any difference. He wondered if he'd be _allowed_ to make a difference.

Stopping in the last village at the edge of the forest, Gaara and his siblings considered the small selection of restaurants. They'd never stopped there for supper before, having always come through early in the morning or late at night.

"Not much to chose from, _jan,_" Kankuro commented, surveying the stores with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

"Anything's better than rations." Temari crossed her arms. "And I insist on fresh, hot tea."

Lured by the smell of frying meat and baking bread, Gaara headed toward the nearest restaurant, his siblings trailing behind him. His thoughts weren't on food, though; they were on the Chuunin Exam. He and his siblings had all three passed this time. _How quickly?_ he wondered, taking a seat at one of the outside tables. _How quickly can I make jonin? How quickly can I get the Council to consider me for Kazekage?_

He'd worked hard, and not just on strengthening his control of Shukaku. Despite remaining a genin for so long, he'd petitioned the Council for roving assignments, taken on one student, worked up to three students, and most recently, even served a term as an academy instructor. Given the shortage of chuunin and jonin in Suna — thanks in part to their loses during the Konoha Invasion — the Council had been forced to cave in repeatedly. And Gaara had made the most of his chances, proving that he was patient and stable enough to train students as well as reliable and organized enough to handle teaching classes. On top of that, he'd become the natural second-in-command of every team he'd joined, and he'd even led teams when a jonin or chuunin wasn't available. In short, he'd been a model shinobi and citizen.

Still, the Council resisted him with each step he took. They clearly didn't trust him.

The waitress came and went, taking their orders, and Kankuro tossed aside his hood, running his hand through his spiky hair. With a sigh, he pulled his scrolls off his back, rolling and stretching his shoulders. He'd taken a back injury during his final fight, although he'd won. Likewise, Temari seemed less energetic than usual, having drained her chakra completely while defeating her final opponent. She leaned her fan against the table and propped her chin on her fist, letting her shoulders slump. For a moment, there was only companionable silence as a gentle breeze washed over the three siblings. Around them, the other patrons talked and laughed in a low murmur that was matched by the passerby on the dirt road. Lanterns hung overhead, casting a soft glow on the tables, and Gaara willed himself to relax as well.

"Think we can make it home by lunch tomorrow?" Temari asked, yawning.

"Barring a sand storm." Kankuro stretched one arm across his chest and held it for several seconds.

Temari groaned. "Don't even say the words 'sand storm.'"

A normal conversation, a typical moment. Over the last two years, Gaara had watched his siblings grow comfortable in his presence. Other than his three students, he felt that his siblings were the only ones who fully believed in him, fully trusted him, and truly wanted to spend time with him. Still, aside from passing on training tips and jutsu to his students, Gaara wasn't sure that he'd made any detectable difference in their lives. Did anyone really need him?

"There they are."

Gaara heard the whispering behind them, but he didn't turn to see who had spoken. He simply nodded to the waitress as she returned with their green tea.

"I heard they all three made chuunin."

"They did. I was at the exam."

Frowning into his cup, Gaara realized that the owners of the voices both sounded tipsy. Their whispers were too loud, and their words were slow and slurred. He glanced at his siblings, but Temari was sipping her tea with obvious contentment while Kankuro stared into his cup. Gaara counseled himself to ignore it and raised the hot cup to his lips, sipping cautiously and letting the stream caress his face.

"Even _Gaara_?" The first man sounded afraid now.

"Yeah, even the lil' monster." The second man sounded disdainful. "What would Yondaime say if he could see this? Man, those judges must be _insane_."

Kankuro's gaze slanted their way, the corners of his mouth tugging downward. With half his face paint faded, the effect was somehow sinister, and Gaara realized that his brother was getting irritated on his behalf.

"Nothin' good'll come of it." The scared one sounded more and more pessimistic. "This ain't gonna end well."

The second man snorted. "Since they obviously couldn't kill the freak, Yondaime should've locked 'im up forever."

Kankuro was on his feet before Gaara knew what was happening. Two long strides, and he was at their table. Ignoring the scared one, he grabbed the disdainful one by the front of his robes and pulled him halfway out of his chair. "_What_ did you say?" he growled. "I dare you to say that again!"

"Kankuro!" Temari jumped to her feet, clearly ready to intervene.

Standing as well, Gaara held out his arm and blocked her path. He would stop the fight himself if he had to, but part of him suddenly needed to know how far his brother would go for him. _Does it matter so much to you?_ he wondered, unconsciously holding his breath.

The restaurant's few other patrons all stared their way, the nearest ones vacating their tables. The waitress retreated to the doorway, holding her serving tray in front of her like a shield.

The drunk man seemed unfazed. "I said he's a freak!" He struggled against Kankuro's grip, grabbing at his hand and unsuccessfully trying to dislodge his fist. "The Kazekage shoulda locked 'im up. We don't need no monster holdin' leadership roles 'round here."

"Wrong choice." That creepy little smirk turned up one corner of Kankuro's mouth — the smirk that indicated much violence would occur. Then Kankuro lifted the man up, grabbed the back of his neck with his other hand, and slammed his face into the table with a thick, wet _thump_.

Recognizing that his brother was merely warming up, Gaara stepped forward. "Enough."

Glancing over his shoulder, Kankuro frowned at him, and under his hand, the drunk squirmed, blood pouring out his nose. "Whatever, _jan._" He released the man abruptly, letting him slide off the table and drop to the ground.

Gaara took his seat again, sipping on his tea like nothing had happened. After an uncomfortable pause, Temari joined him. Kankuro strolled over to his chair and plopped down in an offhand fashion. Around them, the murmuring patrons inched back toward their tables, apparently convinced the violence was over.

"You might get us kicked out," Temari hissed.

"Then they'll lose our money," Kankuro shot back.

"Enough," Gaara repeated blandly. Although he knew he had to maintain control of the situation, deep inside he felt strangely warm. When he'd been a child, he'd injured or killed the people who insulted him; as a teenager, he'd forced himself to ignore them. But no one had ever defended him. He'd noticed that Kankuro's tolerance for his detractors had been quickly evaporating, but until that moment, he hadn't understood precisely what it meant.

For the first time in his life, someone had stood up for him.

The following morning, when they returned to Suna, Gaara could tell the news of their promotion had preceded their arrival. The most recent batch of genin was excited and happy, some yelling "Congratulations, sensei!" or "Congratulations, sempai!" as he passed them in the street. It gave Gaara hope, although some of the jonin were clearly disgruntled. "This is not good," he overheard a few of them mutter as he and his siblings made their way through the village to their home; it reminded him of the night before.

"Jackasses," Kankuro grumbled.

Temari frowned. "I guess they're stuck in the past. Sad, huh?"

Gaara didn't comment, not wanting to spark another confrontation. However, once in the safety of his home, he found himself lost in thought as he wound his way through the hallways, his footsteps silent on the hardwood floors. The noon sunlight pierced the round windows, awakening a faint golden glow in the wood. As Yondaime's children and heirs, they had been allowed to live in the Kazekage mansion after their father's death, until such a time as the Council finally stopped fighting and agreed on their choice for Godaime Kazekage — a position Gaara desperately coveted.

He had Naruto to thank for that dream. He had Naruto to thank for a great many things, including the fact he felt life was beginning to return to the late Kazekage's home. The realization had a certain irony to it. Before he'd fought Naruto, he'd thought he was alive, but in truth, he'd been in his grave, hiding. He'd been afraid to reach out, convinced that he'd only be hurt again; the pain of being told he was unloved and unwanted, even by his own mother, had been too much to bear. To risk that level of rejection again? Especially when he knew his father, brother, and sister hated him also?

Gaara had almost reached his bedroom, intent on changing clothes after their long trip, when Temari stepped into the hallway. Clearly she'd had the same idea; she was now dressed in a black yukata with a lavender floral print.

She grinned at him. "There you are. I wondered where you'd gone. Baki's downstairs, and he apparently brought us lunch. You'll join us, won't you?"

"Sure. I'll be down in a moment," Gaara replied, then he watched his sister scurry down the hall, clearly happy at the idea of food.

As Gaara changed into a simple maroon yukata, he fell back into thought. Given the incident of the previous day, he suspected his assumptions about his family had been wrong. His siblings had feared him and fled from him, but he suspected now that they might not have hated him. It was Kankuro, in fact, who had caught his attention first. Not that Gaara hadn't come to love Temari equally much, because he had. He valued her commitment to diplomacy and responsibility, as well as her fighting spirit and sheer toughness. She was almost a mother figure for him. But Kankuro . . .

Kankuro told him the truth. He cared enough to tell him the truth. Even when Gaara had been insane, Kankuro had braved his foul moods, trying to reason with him and keep him focused. Before, Gaara had hated that; he'd considered his brother an annoying pest. Over time, though, he'd realized that Kankuro was worried about him and looking out for him, and most importantly, if Gaara had revealed to his brother some dream or goal, Kankuro had accepted his words. He'd never been negative or told him he couldn't do it. In response to hearing those dreams, sometimes Kankuro said nothing more than a simple "Okay, man," but always he had helped Gaara, doing anything from training with him to persuading Baki to take Gaara's intentions more seriously. And, most telling of all, Kankuro had done those things without Gaara's asking him.

As he neared the common room, Gaara set aside his thoughts. He reached out to slide open the door, only to pause at the feeling of someone's unfamiliar chakra. Knowing his approach had been silent, he barely cracked the door and peered inside, suppressing his own chakra until he could identify their visitor. Years of assassination attempts had left him cautious, but all he found was one of the jonin kunoichi standing with Baki.

"It's no trouble," she was saying, smiling and pulling bento boxes out of the basket she carried. "We heard you all made chuunin. The least we can do in celebration is feed you lunch."

Gaara frowned, recognizing her face but not remembering her name. She was the kunoichi who had often flirted with his father before he died.

"Thank you," Temari said, sitting at the kotasu table and accepting her box.

"Yeah, thanks." Kankuro, who was already seated, smiled as he took his box.

However, after two years of slowly opening up and talking to his brother, Gaara sensed the faint fakeness in Kankuro's smile. He always felt better when he could detect Kankuro's performances; even Temari could still be fooled when Kankuro got serious. For the most part, though, their brother seemed to subconsciously leave them clues so they could factor his performance into their strategizing during a crisis. In this case, Gaara could easily detect that Kankuro didn't trust their visitor.

The woman set the final bento box at Gaara's spot, then bowed and took her leave. Baki nodded to them and left as well, congratulating them one last time. Gaara started to step into the room then, only to pause when he noticed the way his brother stared at his bento box.

Slowly, Kankuro slanted a sideways look at Temari, who frowned at him. Then he switched his box with Gaara's and opened it. Nabbing his chopsticks, he took a bite. Temari watched this as though it were the most normal and ordinary thing in the world.

"Arsenic?" she asked conversationally.

"Nah, foxglove." Kankuro continued eating as though they were discussing the weather. "Haven't gotten that one in awhile, _jan_."

Temari frowned and took a bite of her own lunch. "It doesn't happen as much now. You sure your immunity is holding?"

Kankuro smirked. "Are you kidding? This is _me_ we're talking about here." He resumed eating as though nothing were wrong.

"Brat." Temari grinned, poking him in the side with her chopsticks. "If you puke later, I'm totally gonna laugh my ass off."

Too stunned to react, Gaara stood in the shadows just beyond the door, his hand pressed to the wall. _It's poisoned,_ his mind informed him factually. _He's eating your food for you, and he knows it's poisoned._

Shukaku snickered in the back of his mind, although his voice tiny and quiet these days. _"Of course, stupid. How'd you think you lasted this long? It's the one thing I can't protect you against."_

Although Gaara rarely listened to the voice of The Other now, those words seemed to sear his consciousness. _The one thing you can't protect me against?_ A weakness, one that he himself had considered at one point. A weakness that had been exploited — except the attack had never reached him.

Gaara's hand curled into a fist as his stomach clenched. _How long? How long! How long has he been protecting me this way?_ Desperately, almost hysterically, he wracked his brain, pulling up every strange memory he associated with eating. What he remembered made his breath catch in his throat: day after day after day, Kankuro stealing food off his plate or cooking Gaara's meals himself.

_"Hey, I'm the only one who can cook worth a damn around here."_

_"What're you eating? Seriously, what_ is _this shit? Don't eat that!"_

_"Man, you gotta eat more than just meat. Let me get you some real food, jan."_

_"Uh, Gaara? Flies have been crawling all over that. You totally don't wanna eat it."_

Suddenly, Kankuro's picky rejection of the previous cooks' meals took on a whole new meaning. Gaara's entire body began trembling, and he sank to the floor, too overcome to remain standing. His mind raced — endless memories of Kankuro bringing him his food, cooking his food, or starting a fight and knocking his plate into the floor. The incidents went back at least five years.

Someone had cared after all.

Although he held his breath and pressed his hands to his face, Gaara couldn't stop the tears from coming to his eyes. _Nii-san . . . Nii-san . . . I love you!_ He wanted to say the words. He wanted to run into the room, throw his arms around his brother, and yell them right into his chest. But he didn't dare. He had no idea how Kankuro would react, and he wasn't sure the gesture would be welcome, assuming that he could even express himself that way. But, of course, he couldn't imagine letting go, allowing his siblings see him cry, or showing them such blatant affection.

The tears hovered on his eyelashes, threatening to fall, and fearing he'd be discovered, Gaara teleported away.

* * *

><p>Making his way upstairs, Kankuro headed for Gaara's bedroom, bento box in hand. Despite his assurances to Temari, his stomach ached a bit from the foxglove. He didn't think he'd get sick, but obviously it was going to hurt for a few hours. <em>Oh, well,<em> he thought, stopping at Gaara's door. _I've prepared myself for years. I'll get over it. Besides, I couldn't take the chance. Gaara was supposed to join us._

He knocked on the door, wondering why Gaara had, in fact, not joined them. Temari had said that she'd seen him in the hallway, and he'd indicated he was on his way. "Hey, man, it's me," he called, although he knew it was unnecessary. Gaara would be able to recognize his chakra.

A moment passed, then the door clicked softly, popping open. Kankuro elbowed it the rest of the way open and swept inside, looking around as he did. "Gaara?" He didn't see his brother in the immaculate room, but given that he could sense his chakra as well, he knew he was there. He set the bento box on Gaara's unused bed, amazed as always by how spotless his brother kept his room. Given that Gaara couldn't sleep, he often read, but even with the twin bookcases now double-stacked with various genres of books, the room still seemed sparse and perfect. The only real sign of habitation was the old, plaid afghan bunched on the cushion of Gaara's reading chair.

A tingle raced across his shoulders, alerting him to someone standing behind him. Setting aside his thoughts, Kankuro turned around.

Standing behind the half-open door, his brother peered around the wood, his blank stare seeming to pass through Kankuro. "Why?" he whispered.

Taken aback, Kankuro stared as well. Gaara's chin was tilted down enough to underscore the shadows created by the intersection of his brow with the black rings, and he was frowning, his forehead wrinkled. "Why what?" He found himself standing on quicksand, sinking rapidly and mentally grabbing for a lifeline. What was going on?

His brother bolted forward, and Kankuro found himself face to face with a shiny-eyed and wild-looking Gaara. "Why didn't you tell me?" Gaara's question sounded more like a demand.

"Tell you what?" Kankuro couldn't imagine what his brother was talking about, and for the first time in a long time, he felt his pulse accelerate in response to his brother's mood. This was a Gaara he hadn't seen in years — the manic one.

Gaara clenched his fists. "That you've been saving me from being poisoned to death!"

Kankuro unconsciously stepped backwards, sweat breaking out on his forehead. "What? What are you talking about?" How had he found out? "Gaara, look —"

"No, tell me the truth! I need to know the truth." Gaara advanced as he retreated, grabbing his upper arms and holding him in place. "Have you or have you not been protecting me?"

The confusing mix of emotions that hit Kankuro in that moment made his lips tremble. "Of course I have." _Please care that I care,_ he found himself thinking, although he wasn't sure why. _Please don't say that my feelings are not shinobi-like. I don't want to hear those words coming from you. _For a moment, the specter of their father paraded before his eyes; the hands that clutched his arms were a prelude to slaps and punches.

Gaara grew unnaturally still, his eyes widening, and the fingers encompassing Kankuro's arms gripped him almost painfully. The older boy stood stiffly in his grasp, unmoving and unspeaking. Kankuro wasn't sure what to expect. In all his life, he had only seen three expressions on Gaara's face: anger, bloodlust, and surprise. No, that wasn't true. Once — just once — he had seen his brother genuinely smile. It was a stoic mask that went beyond the reaches of shinobi training and raced out into the defense of a deeply wounded child with a soft heart.

Had Kankuro not seen The Smile, he wouldn't have suspected it. Had Kankuro not watched Gaara adopt Uzamaki Naruto's emotional idealism and commitment to protecting friends, he wouldn't have believed it. But it was true: Gaara didn't have their father's heart. Not Temari's either, although she was unlike their father. He didn't have Baki's worldview or Suna's ethic.

Gaara had a secret heart like Kankuro's.

After realizing that, Kankuro was relieved that he'd never stepped down from his self-assigned post. It was the least he could do to be his brother's taster and replacement cook.

"How long?" Gaara asked, his voice oddly strained.

"Six years." Kankuro stopped to consider his answer. "Okay, almost seven, _jan._"

Gaara became the statue staring him down again. A minute passed, then: "Why?" He seemed to unfreeze all at once. "And why didn't you tell me? Don't you think I'd want to know?"

Kankuro tried to pull away, feeling suddenly defensive. "You were perfectly safe! I had it all under control."

"That's not the point." Gaara pushed him up against the wall, but his tone was more imploring than threatening. "You protected me."

The words rearranged themselves in Kankuro's mind: _Don't you think I'd want to know that you protected me?_ He had an answer, of course: Fear of Shukaku's emergence, fear of their father's finding out, fear of a traitor's death. Once Gaara was calm again, Kankuro could use those reasons and explanations, and he would accept them as logical. But Gaara wasn't calm. In fact, Kankuro had never seen Gaara in this particular state of mind. It wasn't the same as the bloodlust-filled mania he used to display. Kankuro wasn't sure if he were going be attacked or hugged.

"Why?" Gaara repeated, squeezing his arms.

"Why do you think?" Kankuro finally asked, his voice emerging choked and rough. "What was I supposed to do? Stand back while they killed my little brother? While they poisoned him to death?" Years of suppressed rage broke free in an instant. "For what? Because you were a _child_ who couldn't control a _monster_ the way they wanted you to? And whose fault was that, huh? Whose?" His words escalated into near-yelling. "It was _his,_ of course. _He_ ordered it to be done. _He_ killed my mom as a result. And then he didn't take responsibility for his own fucking actions and labeled you a failure. 'He's a failure, so kill him.' Well, I don't accept that. I won't be a part of that!" His eyes burned; he had to look away from the intense gaze pinning him to the wall. "I hate him."

It was the conflict of his entire life: he had grown up simultaneously hating and loving his family. Temari and he had grown out of their daily squabbles, bonding in the face of abuse and adversity on multiple fronts. However, for much longer, Gaara had remained a source of terror and the person he couldn't reach. And his father . . . His father had been aloof, displeased — the man who ultimately saw everyone, even his own children, as pawns in a struggle for military advancement and economic restitution.

"He made me choose," Kankuro whispered, his voice uneven despite his struggle to control himself. _I chose you over him._ "I could never forgive him for any of it. I _hate_ him." _And yet part of me still loves him. Am I sick?_ To his horror, the tears escaped. Only a few, but he could feel the hot tracks streaking down his cheeks.

Gaara loosened his grip. That silent, penetrating gaze grew wide-eyed again. After a moment, Gaara released one of his arms, reaching up a hand and brushing away a few tears with gentle fingertips.

In that instant, Kankuro's entire universe shattered and reformed itself.

"Ni — " Gaara's throat seemed to close off, and his fingers trembled. He dropped his hand. "You chose to forgive me."

It wasn't a question. He answered anyway. "Yes." It had been hard at times. Even still, Kankuro occasionally remembered various incidents, like the death of his one and only pet, and grew angry. But Gaara wasn't like their father. He had taken responsibility for himself — for his behavior, his actions, his words. He had accepted the entire weight, _even_ the parts not his fault, and changed his destiny. Kankuro could honor that.

He could love that.

"Then forgive him, too." Gaara lifted his other hand and wiped away the remaining tears. "Not for him. For you. I don't want to see you cry."

No punches. No harsh words. No indictments of his manhood. Instead, a gentle touch he hadn't known Gaara was capable of. In that moment, Kankuro knew he would lay down his life for his brother if he had to. In any way he could, he would support him in his quest to become Kazekage, and he would give up his life if that was what it took to keep him there. The love he felt slammed into him with such force he literally had to kneel to the floor.

Gaara knelt in front of him, his gaze filled with clear worry. "Are you all right?"

Kankuro wanted to tell him, wanted to show him that love. But no words came to his lips. Occasionally, Temari and he would hug each other, but he couldn't get his arms to move. He wasn't sure Gaara would accept the gesture, and he wouldn't risk the rejection. "Yeah, man. I'm fine." He gave his brother a small smile.

"Good." Gaara hesitated. "Thank you."

Kankuro knew what he meant. "No problem."

Lowering his head, Gaara closed his eyes, then slowly opened them again. He fixed his brother with a calm stare. "And our father?"

Kankuro considered the question for a moment. "Because you asked, I'll forgive him. I'll let it go." That wasn't entirely true. It wasn't just that Gaara had asked; it was the way he had asked. Gaara had made it a matter of his choice, his peace, and his healing. More than that, he had _cared._

And that made all the difference.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Thank you to everyone who reviewed and faved!  
><em>

_Yes, I've read the newest chapters of Naruto, but I will not change this story to align with the new information. I had it 95 percent complete before ch. 546 was posted, and I had it 100 percent complete before the huge revelations in ch. 547 took place. I made one small tweak in the upcoming ch. 4 to align with the new stuff, but I won't be revising chs. 1-3. I'm not sure I really even need to. Also, I'm writing a fanfic now that reacts to the new stuff. (smile)_


	4. Age 16

_A/N: __**Spoilers **__briefly mentioned for manga chs. 546-548._

_Translation reminders, jic: "Nii-san" means older brother, and "ototo" means younger brother._

* * *

><p>"I shall be telling this with a sigh<br>Somewhere ages and ages hence . . ."  
>-"Road Not Taken," Robert Frost<p>

**Chapter Four — Ages Hence, Age 16**

_Ai._

Love.

As he left his office for the evening and headed toward the Kazekage mansion's private wing, Gaara reached up and touched his forehead, brushing over the kanji he'd burnt there with his own sand. Now that he'd decided to live for his village, to bond with and love it, his self-imposed tattoo had gone from being caustically ironic to prophetic and literal. He considered that the greatest victory of his life thus far.

And yet he was well aware that love was also the greatest double-edged sword.

Before his fight with Naruto, Gaara had found bonds to be painful; part of his revision of himself had included accepting that one shares pain, joy, sadness, and happiness with another. He'd begun to support and encourage his siblings, and they had supported and encouraged him. Now, though, came the sharing of pain and sadness. Upon returning home from the Fourth Shinobi World War, Gaara had conducted a mass funeral for all the Suna shinobi who'd been killed. He'd thanked Kami that he'd not had to bury any of his friends or family, although he'd learned that he'd come close to losing Kankuro to poison — again. Kankuro himself had not been so lucky, though. His best friend, Shiro, had been killed in action.

Therefore, as Gaara headed back to the private wing he shared with his siblings, he wondered how to comfort his brother. It was a new area for him. He'd watched others, though, and knew it involved things like sitting with them, listening to them, getting tissues for them, and hugging or holding them. He now felt close enough to his siblings to do those kinds of things, and any reluctance he might have harbored he'd erased when he'd finally confronted his father and learned about his mother. Facing that pain head-on had been liberating; he'd not realized how much hurt had remained until he spoke with his father again. With that thorn extracted from his soul, he felt empowered to properly care for his family in any way necessary.

However, checking the kitchen first, Gaara found only Temari at the supper table. His brother was conspicuous by his absence.

"Hey, ototo," she said, gesturing toward a herd of paper boxes. "We have takeout."

"Takeout?" Gaara frowned. That said a lot by itself. In what Gaara had learned was a fit of paranoia, Kankuro had learned to cook when he was fourteen, and he'd been cooking their meals ever since. Given that he was a natural artist, he'd even turned out to be good at it, which was fortunate since both Gaara and Temari had no talent in that area. "Kankuro didn't feel like cooking," he surmised.

Temari frowned at her plate and set down her chopsticks. "He's really hurting; I can tell. He's not saying anything yet, but that's the issue — he's not talking at all. He's not working on his puppets, either. For the most part, he's just been shut up in his room."

_That's a bad sign._ Gaara sat across the table from her and stared at the boxes of rice, noodles, stirfry, and sweet-and-sour pork. "I didn't really pay attention as a kid. Is this normal behavior for when he's extremely upset?" His brother was a fairly predictable guy. He only had one real hobby, and that was working on puppets, although he also sketched and occasionally painted. However, he had a fairly large crowd of friends he hung out with, and he loved to hang out with his siblings, too. He preferred outdoor activities, though, and had even managed to teach Gaara a few sports. He wasn't the type to stay cooped up for anything other than his beloved puppets.

"Sorta." Temari pushed the box of rice at him. "I haven't seen him this hurt in a long time. I remember when Grandpa died, though." She paused, her brow furrowing. "Our mom's father, that is. They were super close. Grandpa was the one who began teaching him the puppet jutsu; Kankuro inherited Karasu and Kuroari from him."

Listening intently, Gaara spooned out a helping of rice as well as pork. He didn't remember much about their mother's parents. They'd died when he was young, and he guessed they'd wanted nothing to do with him. "So Kankuro was hit hard by his death?"

"Very." Temari picked up her chopsticks again, only to push her food around on her plate, creating small rice dunes. "He was only eight at the time. It was bad. He locked himself into his room and wouldn't come out or eat. Father broke the doorknob on the second day, but even after Kankuro was forced out, he was really withdrawn and sullen for months."

Gaara ate his supper silently, thinking back on the frowning boy he'd first gotten to know as his brother. He hadn't seen much of his siblings prior to Yashamaru's death, and it occurred to him that the Kankuro he'd first known had been grieving. He'd thought his brother had hated him on sight; after all, he always had his arms crossed and a frown fixed to his lips. It struck him now that his perception of his brother might have been off from the beginning.

"I think Grandpa was the only one Kankuro was close to," Temari continued, setting down her chopsticks again without eating anything. "He wasn't close to Father or Uncle Yashamaru, and our paternal grandparents died before we were born. Kankuro was never quite the same after Grandpa passed away, although he worked hard to become a good puppet master like him. Or to surpass him, technically."

In his mind, Gaara suddenly made connections across the generations of their family — Kankuro, like Yashamaru, had inherited from his grandpa the fine chakra control needed for either puppetry or medical jutsu. For a painful moment, he wondered if their father had been disappointed in that outcome or had hoped Kankuro would inherit his magnetism release instead. What had Kankuro suffered as a child that Gaara didn't even know about? "You're afraid it will be similar this time," he noted, pulling his thoughts back on track. "You're afraid he'll withdraw from us."

"Yeah, I am." Temari leaned back in her chair, balancing it on its back legs, and crossed her arms. "Shiro was his best friend, and they've been best friends since the academy. And as best I can tell, he's holding in all his grief."

Gaara stood and cleared their dishes, realizing neither one of them had the heart to finish their supper. "I'll go up and talk to him." _Or I'll try at least,_ he thought, scraping his leftover food into the trash. "Maybe I should take him some food." He glanced at the boxes.

"There's the party tonight." Temari stood to help him. "Maybe we can get him to eat something there."

It was true. Now that the funeral had been conducted, a village-wide party was being thrown in honor of the Allied Forces' victory. "If we can get him to go," Gaara said, wondering if he had his work cut out for him. "Is he cooped up in his room right now?"

Temari shook her head as she began closing boxes and transferring them to the refrigerator. "In an effort to help, Baki ordered him out on some small mission this afternoon. I expect him back any time now." She stopped abruptly at the table, half the herd of boxes still left before her. "I'm really worried," she murmured, staring down at her hands. "About the way he's bottling it up, I mean. Granted, I haven't seen him cry since the day you killed his cat, and that was when he was eleven, almost twelve. But that's the whole damn point: I know he tries too hard to hold it all in, which is probably Father's fault. Father always had a very strict, narrow definition of what it meant to be a shinobi — or a man."

The universe screeched to a halt. Gaara forgot to inhale. "Killed . . . his cat?"

Clearly surprised, Temari raised an eyebrow at him. "Yeah. Don't you remember? He said you two had been arguing, and he knocked your food into the floor. And then you killed his cat, Akako." She shook her head, her gaze piercing the wall with the faraway look that signaled she was mentally in the past. "He loved that cat."

Gaara remembered the cat. He'd been jealous of the attention and love his brother poured on it, holding it and carrying it and talking to it. He'd forgotten that he'd killed it, though. Some of his memories, especially the earlier ones, were washed over in the red haze of Shukaku's bloodlust and his own rage. Now that Temari had focused his attention, though, he vaguely recalled crushing the cat in a fit of pique.

Abruptly sitting down at the table again, Gaara tried to control his reaction — to stay calm — but the wave of horror crashing into his chest made him pale. He clenched his fists, fighting for his composure, but he shook with anguish. The picture that formed in his mind turned his stomach: he now knew that Kankuro had started fights over his food in order to save him from being poisoned, and he even remembered calling his brother fat during those arguments. But the incident with the cat . . . It was likely that Kankuro had saved him only to be punished by losing his beloved pet. Somehow that memory on top of knowing that Kankuro had just lost his best friend was more than Gaara could take. He wanted to cry for his brother.

"Gaara?" Temari sounded worried.

"It's not right," Gaara whispered, sickened. It was a stupid thing to say, he decided, but it was all that would come out. "It's not right." He stood slowly, as though his muscles were stiff, and turned toward the door, determined to fix it if only he could figure out how.

To love someone was to hurt with them. To love someone was to hurt when he hurt them. But Gaara couldn't undo the past, and he wasn't Chiyo that he could transfer his life-force to bring back the dead. All his gestures would only be token ones.

He hoped that would be good enough.

* * *

><p>Soaking in the tub, Kankuro attempted to relax. He tried to psych himself up for the party later that evening, tried to tell himself that it was okay because Shiro died honorably — in short, he tried to pretend like everything would be all right.<p>

It was merely a token effort; it was a miserable lie.

He sighed as he stood and grabbed his towel. Already that day he'd fallen into the inevitable traps: quick, simple thoughts like _I need to tell Shiro that_ or _Shiro'll think that's hilarious._ The concept that they'd never hang out together again, and all the things that realization brought with it, was a pain that Kankuro's mind skittered away from. It seemed like a special kind of hell — one his father's death hadn't inspired in him. His father's death and the grief it caused had been complex, complicated, and unclear. With Shiro, the loss was straightforward and cutting like it had been with his grandpa. The world seemed strangely flat and gray, as though Kankuro were underwater. _War's stupid,_ he thought, stubborn, but he knew perfectly well that fighting Madara and his forces had been their only choice.

Just like going to the post-victory celebration was his only choice. Being the fun-loving guy he was, Shiro would've wanted it that way.

After drying off, Kankuro wrapped the towel around himself and slipped down the hallway to his bedroom. He could feel Gaara's chakra through the door, and he knew his siblings were the only ones he could tolerate talking to about Shiro's death. So he steeled himself and opened the door. To his shock, he found Gaara sitting on his bed — or, more specifically, sitting on his clothes. "Ototo?" The word just slipped out, the clear sign that his relationship with his younger brother had changed. Before Gaara's death, Kankuro rarely referred to him as "ototo" since Gaara had made it clear when he was younger that he didn't consider them to be brothers.

Pausing, Gaara grew quite still, apparently cherishing the bond between them. However, he didn't remark on the word choice, and after a moment, he held up the bundle in his hands. "Wear this instead."

"What's that?" Kankuro couldn't imagine why Gaara would care one way or another.

"Clothes that will fit you properly." Gaara frowned, lowering the bundle to his lap again. "I realized it earlier. Temari made a comment about the past at supper, and I remember I used to call you fat. Then it struck me suddenly that you rarely wear clothes that actually fit." He shrugged one shoulder. "I'm probably over-thinking it; it's probably a coincidence. But . . ." He held out the bundle once more.

At first, Kankuro couldn't reply. He knew that he was thin enough now that he'd have to gain over 25 pounds before being even faintly overweight. However, although he knew factually that he was skinny, he'd never lost the strange need to hide his body. The topic had become a sore point with him after years of classmates — and his ultra-thin brother — bullying him about it. "Ah, c'mon. I'm not that fragile, _jan._" He smirked at the irony of his own words. He might not be fragile, but he was certainly wounded. "Puppet masters' outfits are supposed to baggy. And black. It's tradition from the art of puppetry itself. Bunraku puppeteers wear black robes and hoods so they blend in with the background when on stage."

"I insist." Gaara stretched out his arms further, drawing attention to the clothes he held.

It wasn't worth arguing about, and although Kankuro would never admit it, Gaara was partially right. "Okay, okay." He accepted the bundle, flopping it down on his chest of drawers and acting as though he were vaguely put out. In truth, however, he was touched that his brother cared, and the mystery of the situation distracted him from his grief a bit. Why was Gaara suddenly so concerned about the past?

Unbothered by his brother's presence, Kankuro tossed aside his towel and proceeded to get dressed. There wasn't anything overtly special about the outfit Gaara had given him; it was just black pants and a short-sleeved crimson shirt with a high collar and a V-neck. Black mesh covered the open V section and also extended from the sleeves down to his wrists, hugging his arms. Simple and dark, which was what Kankuro liked. The only special detail was the fact it all fit snuggly and underscored just how slender he was.

Kankuro turned to face his brother, feeling stuck somewhere between self-conscious and pleased. Hopefully it didn't show. For Gaara, weight had always been a nonissue. No one had ever called him fat because he'd always straddled the line between normal and underweight. "Well, how does it look?" he asked completely facetiously. He struck a pose, adding flair to his performance out of sheer habit, and wondered how he could act so normal — so silly — when he hurt so much inside. Then again, he didn't quite feel real. His best friend wasn't actually dead, and this party was just a hoop to jump through.

Gaara gazed up at him, utterly serious and deadpan. "Very nice."

Surprised, Kankuro turned away. "Uh, thanks." He sounded off-hand, but secretly he was complimented. Unsure what to do with the bizarre situation, he opened the top drawer of his chest of drawers and considered the box of paints there. His purple face paint lived in the bathroom, where he could easily access it, but he kept a few other colors, namely for fancy parties or Halloween. White was the base color, which he never wore into battle, and he kept crimson and indigo so on Halloween he could portray a ghost or some other scary character. He also owned light green and red, and he considered them briefly before rejecting them. Light green symbolized peacefulness while red symbolized enthusiasm and passion. Neither color matched his current state of mind. If he used anything, he decided it should be indigo, which meant depression.

A gentle hand closed around his wrist, arresting his hand before he could reach for the indigo. "Don't."

Kankuro stared at Gaara, shocked. "What? Why?"

"You don't need it." His brother looked grim; his lips were bent into a frown and his brow furrowed.

Kankuro couldn't formulate a reply. First the clothes and now this?

"It's unnecessary, and . . ." Gaara seemed to be struggling with words. "What is it that you believe? That without the mask there will be no 'you'? Or that you need to hide your true self? There's nothing wrong with you just the way you are."

"I know," Kankuro said, suddenly irritated. "Look, I get that you're feeling guilty about the past." Had Gaara remembered what he said about the paint, too, or had this interrogation sprung from a different source? "But the paint is part of my performance and persona — my artistry. The Puppet Corps stole it from Kabuki Theater, so it's part of being a puppet master, even though we don't all choose to wear it. Without it, I feel naked."

Reaching up, Gaara cupped Kankuro's face in his hands. "Nii-san." His voice was quiet, almost commanding.

Kankuro grew very still, just as much over the touch as the word. Gaara never touched him; Gaara never called him "brother."

"You don't need it," Gaara repeated, catching his brother's gaze and holding it. "I know you won't go into battle without it, but this isn't a battle." He squeezed gently. "And I appreciate your artistry, but I still want you to know that you don't need any 'help.'"

Stunned, Kankuro felt a strange warmth wash through his chest, easing the wounds buried there, and he wondered if he could find his voice. The mask dropped. "I look like him." Honesty, at last.

"You aren't him." Gaara released his brother, giving him his barely-there smile in the process. "Now, finish getting ready, okay?" He turned, stepping away.

Kankuro's heart broke. _Don't leave! _His brother's kindness was one straw too many piled on the proverbial camel's back. Too many emotions, too many thoughts, too many wounds opened to the air. He whirled around, hiding his face as tears collected on his eyelashes, and he crossed his arms over his stomach, feeling utterly trashed.

A warm hand pressed between his shoulder blades, where it rubbed up and down his spine slowly. "It's okay," came the quiet voice. "You don't have to hold it in. One of your precious people died."

Even though he knew he was safe with Gaara, Kankuro still heard his father's old insults screaming in his head, but the numbness of denial was cracking around the edges, making his sinuses burn. Despite his resistance, the tears tore free of him violently, making his shoulders jerk, and for several minutes he was lost in the pain. He was barely aware of Gaara moving him over to sit on his bed, but he felt slim, strong arms wrapping around him, offering support. They had never hugged before, so even after he'd calmed down and was able to breathe again, Kankuro rested his face against his brother's warm shoulder, trying to soak up the comfort.

"My door's always open," Gaara murmured, rubbing his back once more. "Don't try to carry this alone. Pain and sadness must be shared, too."

Kankuro decided he'd ended up with the wisest, most dedicated ototo in the world. "Okay, man."

"Good." Releasing him, Gaara gave his shoulder a quick squeeze, as though confirming a pact between them. "Then I have one final gift for you." He headed over to Kankuro's worktable, where a large box tied with a ribbon sat. "I know nothing can replace a lost friend, but I'm hoping this will help cheer you up or at least distract you."

Kankuro noticed with some discomfort that the box had holes cut into it. _Please, don't let it be a cat,_he thought, horrified. Gaara had clearly been doing some thinking, clearly had been trying to right past wrongs, but Kankuro didn't want another pet. It had hurt too much to lose the first one, and he didn't want any reminders.

When Gaara picked up the box, it started making scratching and thumping noises.

"No . . ." Kankuro began, raising both hands.

Gaara walked back to him, carrying the box. It meowed.

"Look, I don't want —" Kankuro grimaced as his brother set the box in his lap.

"Please, nii-san." Gaara yanked on the bow, untying the present.

Kankuro frowned. "I appreciate the gesture," he began, wondering if he should or shouldn't finish the sentence: _But I'm not here to assuage your guilt._ Then he realized that for Gaara, it was likely a different issue. Did he think he needed to earn his forgiveness? "But you don't have to make up for the past, you know."

Without replying, Gaara ripped off the lid.

A curious trill caught Kankuro's attention, and against his will, he glanced down. He knew instantly that he'd made a mistake. A kitten peered up at him, standing on her hind legs and pressing her paws against the box's edge. She cocked her head to the side, studying him for a moment, and meowed again. She was a brindle, like his first cat, except tiny and fuzzy.

He was doomed.

"I had trouble finding one I liked." Gaara picked her up with one hand and moved the box out of the way. She squirmed in his grasp, stretching out her legs until her toes spread wide. She squeaked faintly as he set her in Kankuro's lap. "It wasn't so much about her coloring as her personality. I wanted her to be playful."

The kitten wobbled on his leg, her tail shooting straight up, and Kankuro reached out instinctively, steadying her. The instant his fingers touched her soft fur he knew he was utterly defeated. Two seconds, and he had her pressed against his cheek, her loud purrs filling his ear. She licked his face, tickling him. He was too moved to speak, which made him feel silly. But the warm, fuzzy kitten was wiggling against his jaw, and his ototo was hovering over him, looking worried. He patted his bed wordlessly, motioning for Gaara to sit.

Gaara sat right beside him, and after an awkward pause, he slowly ran his arm around Kankuro's waist. "I'm sorry, nii-san," he whispered. "I'm so sorry — about the past and about Shiro. And I wanted to thank you for standing by me all this time."

Setting the kitten on his lap, where she plopped down unceremoniously, Kankuro wrapped his arm around Gaara's shoulders. He was surprised that Gaara was showing him open affection, but he welcomed it. For a strange, suspended moment in time, he felt like his usual mask was out of reach, and he hugged his brother to his side. "No problem, ototo." He wondered if Gaara could begin to guess all the things he'd done for him when no one was looking, and he sincerely hoped he wouldn't learn of the rest. It was bad enough that Gaara had discovered his efforts to protect him from being poisoned. Some gifts were best when hidden.

"What will you name your kitten?" Gaara asked quietly.

Considering the tiny, purring ball on his lap, Kankuro thought through a few possibilities, only to arrive at something he knew would sound quite odd. Still, he found it to be appropriate. "I think I've got the perfect name."

Gaara raised one hairless brow. "Oh?"

"Ai."

To Kankuro's surprise and pleasure, Gaara smiled.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**__ A warm thanks to all my reviewers for their support and feedback. Since I sent PMs to the signed-in reviewers, to the others: Thank you, jkl, for your continued support and feedback! It's always a pleasure to hear from you._

_To Black Veil: I hope you find your way to this story, since it is indeed the continuation of "To Cease to Exist," and if I could PM you a hearty thank you for your reviews on all the other stories, I would. You made my night, let me tell you!_

_Now, the promised explanation about weight. I've always been fascinated by the seemingly common idea that Kankuro was overweight in part 1, and I think I mentioned it once in a previous story myself. However, as I said earlier, in part 1, Kankuro is 5.47 feet tall and weighs 132.2 lbs. According to a Body Mass Index calculator, this makes his weight healthy and normal for a teenager, especially when you stop to consider some of it will be muscle weight (which is something a BMI calculator can't factor in). In Shippuuden, Kankuro is 5.74 feet tall and weighs 134.9 lbs. According to a BMI calculator, he would have to gain an entire 27 lbs to be even slightly overweight. Since more boys have eating disorders now than they used to, I decided to brush up against the issue of boys and weight (among other reasons).  
><em>


End file.
